


We Are All Stardust

by jynx



Series: Ghost of Nothing [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Can be read as gen, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Missing Scene, Obi-Wan's Excellent Coping Mechanisms, Ohgoodgod the feels, battle aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 21:29:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15033704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jynx/pseuds/jynx
Summary: The aftermath of *that* scene. Or, Obi-Wan comes to terms with his Master's death.(Can be read gen, but is also prologue for actual fic? So If prefer gen, stop here. :D)





	We Are All Stardust

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [And I Can't Save What's Left Of You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14896446) by [ArvenaPeredhel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel). 



> Much thanks to AnUnexpectedParty & Sanerontheinside for the beta. Screw you, my awesome Discord Server for the idea!!! I both love and hate you, because dammit, I was playing Pathfinder when I saw what inspired this and made death sounds and my group stared at me.
> 
> Also, sorry, not sorry, ;)

He didn't know how long he sat there, clutching that precious body against his. He was aware of nothing aside from the feel of the weight in his arms, the soft-coarseness of Qui-Gon's hair tangled around his fingers as he cradled his Master's head to his chest, the lack of breath and warmth and a heartbeat ripping through him. He sobbed, rocking them back and forth, uncaring of how he twisted his own body protectively around his Master's lifeless one. 

His mind ached where their bond used to be, not properly unwound like training bonds were supposed to be upon a Padawan's Knighting--joyous and full of pride on both sides--but ruthlessly severed at the end of a blood-red lightsaber. His mind felt sore and tattered and bleeding, and he screamed into the Force for his Master even as he held him. 

There was no answer. 

Of course there wasn't. He was dead now. There would be no more answers. No more kind chidings to eat, or sleep, when Obi-Wan became too involved in his studies or projects, no more overbearing teasing when Obi-Wan got flustered over something, no more peace anchoring his mind when his Visions overwhelmed him. There would be no more of that. 

He was alone. 

He looked up from where he had hidden his face in Qui-Gon's shoulder, trying to swallow back the tears, knowing that the two of them could not stay here. He still had a duty as a Jedi, even though he couldn't have cared less at that moment, but he had a duty to his Master as well. He couldn't leave his body in this place to be collected by unknowing people or unfeeling droids, to be tossed away with the other dead of the battle for the planet like refuse. 

He would make them give his Master the pyre he so justly deserved. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, he got to his feet. It was awkward, as he still clutched Qui-Gon to his chest, and his Master was so much taller than him. Never again would his Master tease him about needing to lay off the caff and stims, that maybe _a little more fresh air Padawan, honestly, your books can travel with you_ … 

It was too much. The weight of memories, of remembrance, of needing to hear that wonderful voice one more time... 

There would always be a plea for "one more time", even if that one more time was granted. He would never, in his entire life, be ready or willing to give up his Master. 

Once he was on his feet, his Master's lifeless body in his arms, he didn't know how to move forward. If he took that next step, it would mean he would have to keep going, and his entire life spun out in front of him--without Qui-Gon, and now with an apprentice he never thought he'd take, a lonely future full of sadness and pain and none of the light and laughter he had had before. The paperwork to have him and Qui-Gon declared a working pair, Jedi who worked only with each other and no one else, was still on his datapad and yet to be submitted to the Council. He had meant to send it before they left for Naboo, but it had never happened. 

Funny how these things work out. 

Qui-Gon had never trained him, taught him, how to be a coward or how to run from whatever challenges lay ahead of him. He didn't know how to turn from what was in front of him, as much as it hurt, as much as his arms shook and his back ached and his mind bled and his heart broke. 

He took the first step. 

And the next. 

He walked, the tears drying as he became numb to everything around him in the realization of what, exactly, was happening. His Master was dead and he now had a life entrusted to him. His Master was dead and he was the unworthy Padawan left to finish what his Master could not. His Master was dead and he would forever define his life as such. 

The sun would rise but his Master would not see it because he was dead. 

The sun would set but his Master would still dead. 

His Master was dead and Obi-Wan had never told him how much he loved him, how thankful he was for his training, his kindness, his...his everything. There were not enough datapads in the Galaxy to hold all the words Obi-Wan wanted to say to his Master, to Qui-Gon, but none of it mattered now. 

His Master was dead and had no ears with which to hear them. 

"Jedi Kenobi?" someone said, touching his arm. 

He had found people in the hanger. Pilots, celebrating, cheering. They were tossing the boy in the air. They had won. 

They had won and his Master was dead. 

They were silent now. Someone was trying to take his Master from him but he would not let them. His Master was his to care for, his to see to. 

"Where do you see to your dead?" he asked, his voice raspy and hoarse, and still yet breaking on that last hated word. Had he been screaming? He didn't remember. 

Someone led him through corridors and down several lifts. All of it blurred, paling against the knowledge that his Master was dead and he was alive and it was expected of him that he go on without him, alone. 

"Sir Jedi?" the man in a pilot uniform said, hovering in front of him. It was clear from his expression he had been trying to get Obi-Wan's attention for some time and Obi-Wan had not been responding. "We're, uh, we're here." 

Obi-Wan nodded and followed as once more the man led him, this time into a cold and sterile room. Droids milled about with one elderly woman there that the pilot went and spoke to. He ignored them, finding an empty table and gently setting his Master down on it. 

Was it his Master anymore? 

No, he had to stop that. Of course this was his Master. This body was the same one that had comforted him after his Visions had sent him screaming awake with nothing more than a sense of Darkness and the scent of blood and char in his nose. Those hands had handed him countless mugs of tea. That mouth had gifted him with smiles and kind words. This body had shielding him, tucked him against its larger frame, during bomb blasts when missions went wrong, had guided him through katas and lightsaber training, had taught him to cook. 

Obi-Wan felt his eyes burn and his throat close up. His vision sparkled and he shook his head against the wave of dizziness that threatened to overtake him. No. He couldn't leave his Master here, alone, not like he himself was alone now. 

"Sir Jedi?" the elderly woman said, laying a hand on his elbow. "What are your traditions for your dead?" 

Obi-Wan stared at her, trying to process her question, before swallowing to wet his suddenly dry throat. "Pyre. We, we hold pyres." 

"Is there anyone you need to contact?" the woman asked. 

Responsibility hit him like a starfreighter. The Council, the boy, the Queen, the Gungans. So many people he needed to talk to, to figure out what was happening with the Queen and the Trade Federation and everything else, but all he wanted to do was sit with his Master and make sure he wasn't left alone. He knew, from the creche, what it was like to be alone but he hadn't been alone since his Master had taken him on; neither of them had been. He was alone now, though, and so was Master Qui-Gon. 

Obi-Wan was alone with the living, and Master Qui-Gon was alone with the dead. 

"I, yes," Obi-Wan whispered. "I have, there is much I have to do." He looked at her, her kind face and something inside him that had not yet broke shattered. He took her hand and laid it on Qui-Gon's head. "Please, don't leave him alone? He, he does not do well when he is left alone." 

The woman's hand flinched slightly from his but she left it on Qui-Gon's forehead. She nodded at him. "I will do this for you, Sir Jedi. Have you seen a healer?" 

Obi-Wan shook his head, forcing himself to take a step away from his Master. "I am not injured, madam," he said, taking another step. Each step felt like he was carving out further portions of his soul. He gave her a bow, stiff and lacking his usual elegance, and finally turned away from the sight of his Master--still, pale, his tunic scorched and bloodied, quite dead--and left with the pilot. 

His Master was dead and he had work to do. 


End file.
